


Know The Alpha (We've Lost All Control)

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bc spoilers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Drug Use, Past Prostitution, Past Relationship(s), There are things I haven't tagged for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The poor line down the street, with their hands in their pockets, and scarves covering their mouths. They're waiting in line for nothing, I know, because the stores are out of food. </p><p>But my Papa, he is rich, and I will have a glass of warm milk when I go inside. Katya clutches my hand to her side and pulls me up. But I'm floating, flying, hovering far above my three-year-old self. I smile at myself, and a baby screams. "</p><p>An alpha doctor, an omega astrophysicist, and a beta who used to be a prostitute, along with their siblings/strangers/betafriends, are all stuck on the most uncomfortable road trip of the century. Featuring awkward super-market stare-downs, inconvenient heats, people getting punched in the face, a whole lot of nightmares, and literally seven dogs. Seven. Dogs. Oh yeah, and a zombie apocalypse.</p><p>(This actually isn't a comedy, although there is a lot of sarcasm and dry wit. Originally posted in 2013, currently being re-written.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Childhood Dreams (Life Destroyed Them)

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so, three things before you read this:
> 
> 1) First things first, I feel as though most people know what an omegaverse is, nowadays, but if you don't: http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega  
> 2) I've always stuck with a very "heteronormative omegaverse." By which I mean, (cisgender) alphas of all gender cannot get pregnant, have dicks with knots, and can (theoretically) impregnate. (Cisgender) Male betas cannot get pregnant, have dicks without knots, and can (theoretically) impregnate. (Cisgender) Female betas can (theoretically) get pregnant, have vaginas, and cannot impregnate. (Cisgender) Omegas of all genders can (theoretically) get pregnant, essentially have vaginas (I have a lot of sciencey thoughts on male omegas, but I'll spare you,) and cannot impregnate.  
> 3) I originally wrote this in 2013, like it says on the tin, so anyone who originally read this will notice that I've gotten a bit more spartan with my depictions of violence, but I also use trigger warnings for everything. If you have serious triggers, I always provide chapter summaries. Obviously, you know your mind better than I do, but please don't sacrifice your mental health for my shitty fanfiction.  
> (Extra fourth thing, if I ever write something offensive, you slap me in the face about it. I am a (non-straight, non-cis) white boy, so you may definitely call me out on my privilege if I'm a dick.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The dream skipped through things, the way dreams do, like Matt, telling me how misunderstood Frankenstein's monster was, and the chef shouting, in French, that Maman could get another chef if she wanted her food 'more American.'
> 
> You could tell that the whole point of the dream was supposed to be when my dad came home, and I was still excited. I think part of the excitement was that I could remember what it felt like, to be eight, and filled with this ridiculous energy. It was like someone had just poured a pot of black coffee down my throat, and I had no idea what to do with myself.
> 
> When my dad came through the door, I was off like a rocket, aimed straight at him. I was a big bundle of excited eight-year-old alpha, but my dad could still pick me up a little. His suit smelled like airports, and weird tea, and something that I could never quite put my finger on.
> 
> He held me close, my head pressed into the crook of his shoulder, tiny hands clinging to him, my mouth pressed to his shoulder, laughing. Until my mouth stopped moving and ripped into his shoulder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally posted in 2013, but I wanted to re-write it, and hopefully finish it, now that I've let it sit for a couple years. I doubt that any of the original readers will still be around, but I hope someone enjoys it. If anyone did read the original and came back to read it now, please note that this version definitely has some squickier moments, and there will be trigger warnings in almost every chapter. There are also chapter summaries in every chapter, which, along with the trigger warnings, will be in the end notes.

The soft clink of glasses against plates, the whisper of pages in Mattie's book, the hiss of bacon, frying in a pan. It was a familiar blend of the sounds I heard every Saturday since I was old enough to remember. Maman was arguing with the cook again, and Matt kept telling me random tidbits about the plotline of his book.

I don't know how I remembered this one Saturday so well, out of the other couple thousand, but I did. It was the day before my ninth birthday, and my dad was supposed to be coming home from his latest business trip to Hong Kong that day, and I was really excited about seeing him.

My dad was usually really strict, and he never had time for things like taking me to New York, or helping me with my homework.

"You have a nanny, a tutor, and your mother, Alfred. Now, run along, Father has an important meeting." He would say, as if the nanny who was in love with him, the tutor who hated me, and my mom, who had ten different charities to run, could be blended into one real parent.

Then, there were the lectures, which usually started with "You are a Kirkland, Alfred," and ended with "My final answer is no, Alfred. Behave better, and I may reconsider."

Mattie would eat that shit up and do extra math problems, but I hated it. The kids on T.V. always had these fun, easy-going parents, who would make them quirky lunches, or buy them a new basketball hoop, or something. I wanted parents like that, not my cold, glamorous ones.

The point was, Dad wasn't exactly easy-going, ever. But, when he came home after three weeks in London, Paris, Hong Kong, Berlin, or Stockholm, he was pretty close. Looking back, I think he felt guilty for leaving us, and so he would always have boxes and boxes of presents tucked into his luggage. He even had a separate suitcase for them, sometimes.

The thing was, even when I was angry with him, I loved my dad, and so I was always on my very best behavior when Dad came home. I think I might have been afraid that he would leave again if I wasn't, but I don't really remember.

The dream skipped through things, the way dreams do, like Matt, telling me how misunderstood Frankenstein's monster was, and the chef shouting, in French, that Maman could get another chef if she wanted her food "more American."

You could tell that the whole point of the dream was supposed to be when my dad came home, and I was still excited. I think part of the excitement was that I could remember what it felt like, to be eight, and filled with this ridiculous energy. It was like someone had just poured a pot of black coffee down my throat, and I had no idea what to do with myself.

When my dad came through the door, I was off like a rocket, aimed straight at him. I was a big bundle of excited eight-year-old alpha, but my dad could still pick me up a little. His suit smelled like airports, and weird tea, and something that I could never quite put my finger on.

He held me close, my head pressed into the crook of his shoulder, tiny hands clinging to him, my mouth pressed to his shoulder, laughing. Until my mouth stopped moving and ripped into his shoulder. Straight through ligaments, muscles, just tore it all away, until you could see the bone. It was really the smell, though, that fucked me up. I was like a dog with a bone, and my teeth wouldn't let go, which meant I was inhaling the blood.

Like, I could smell the blood because I was literally breathing it in. I should have been choking on it, except I was dead. I was an eight-year-old corpse, savaging his own father's body. I couldn't tell who it was, but someone was shouting, screaming, wailing, all of it unintelligible, except for one word:

"Alfred!" Over and over, someone was shouting my name, like they could make me stop.

"Alfred, stop!" They shouted. I wanted to shout back, 'I'm dead! You're talking to a fucking corpse!' But of course, corpses can't talk, eight-year-olds shouldn't swear, and I couldn't un-imbed my teeth from my dad's collar bone.

"Alfred, wake the fuck up!" The voice shouted, louder now, and closer than before.

My eyes snapped open to my brother, and for a second, in my sleepy haze, I thought I was still dreaming. The shouting had stopped, but the screaming had only gotten louder.

"Al, you've got to snap out of it." Matt shook me, hard, and then pulled back, so I could sit up. "The damned keys are in your pocket!"

My hand found my pocket in about the same amount of time it took me to realize that the screaming was real.

There was a beta woman on the car next to ours, who was literally being beheaded by a corpse. There was nothing she, or her kids, who were watching, from the inside of the minivan, because the entire refugee camp was being swarmed by corpses.

There'd been an alpha, yesterday, who wouldn't put kill her beta-friend, when she started showing symptoms, and by the looks of it, her beta-friend had killed her, and a whole lot of other people.

Matt knew, just as well as I did, that the only reason we survived this long was because we had abandoned anyone who was going to die. Those kids were just three more on the body count. Matt revved the engine, and I pulled my gun out from under the seat.

There are certain advantages to being a rich asshole during the apocalypse.

\-----

I'm floating. It's warm, soft and lovely. My sisters curl up next to me, tethering me from both sides. We lie back and watch the clouds, and smile when they morph into the three of us. We're still children, bodies unmarred, hearts soft, and eyes happy. Katya and I sit on the concrete steps of our apartment building, watching the huddled masses, Natasha nestled in Katya's arms, her face warmed by Katya's sweater.

The poor line down the street, with their hands in their pockets, and scarves covering their mouths. They're waiting in line for nothing, I know, because the stores are out of food. But my Papa, he is rich, and I will have a glass of warm milk when I go inside. Katya clutches my hand to her side and pulls me up. But I'm floating, flying, hovering far above my three-year-old self. I smile at myself, and a baby screams. 

Still the rich little omega, I toddle up the stairs, and I do not look back, even as the baby wails and wails, hungry for food it will never get.

I float away, untethered, going nowhere, because of my own cruelty. The light leaves the sky, and the warm weights by my side evaporate, leaving me alone. I sob, alone in a void, and I cannot tell whether it is because I am alone, or because the child probably died, or simply because it is dark, and I am still the rich little omega.

When I wake up, I'm still sobbing, and one of my dogs is licking my face. I hold onto him, digging my fingers into his fur, as though I can hide in it.

I'm still lonely, even awake, surrounded by animals who love me. I miss my sisters. I miss people, in general. Being alone, with no one to talk to, is horrible. I feel as though my omegan instincts get worse every day, to the point where I want nothing more than to curl up into a ball, and never come out again.

Instead, I huddle closer to the dogs and pull a blanket around my shoulders. It's still dark, cold, and every noise makes my hair stand on end. It's early November in upstate New York, and after three years in Florida, I’m not prepared for the cold.

When I get up, the dogs dance around me and don’t stop until I’ve poured them their food. I wish I could enjoy knock-off Spam as much as they enjoy stale dog food.

\-----

I stopped dreaming when I turned fifteen. My parents caught me with an alpha, on my birthday, no less, and kicked me out. I was such a romantic little fool, back then. I suppose I am still a romantic little fool, but my subconscious has given up. It gives me only night terrors, with a liberal helping of bad memories. On the days when I don’t have night terrors, though, I have nothing; my unconscious mind resembles the inside of an ink cartridge.

Today, my unconscious mind resembles a bad Lifetime movie. There is young Francis, homeless and desperate, shaving with his drinking water, because he is still a vain little idiot, even living in a gutter. There is the prostitute, smiling his big smile and whispering, “You don’t have to be a beta.”

Then, young Francis follows him down the alley, while the audience bites their nails and shout at the television. Mssr. Pierre pulls them into the whorehouse, and young Francis is pushed and prodded into a bathroom. The prostitute scrubs him down, wraps him in a towel, and pulls him out of the bathroom.

Young Francis has his legs, his back, and his chest all waxed, and the audience turns away uncomfortably when he starts crying. Young Francis is forced into tight clothes, four-inch heels, and is presented with a baggie.

Young Francis doesn’t take it. Mssr. Pierre smiles and coos and the prostitute leaves him there. Mssr. Pierre kisses him, and young Francis tosses drugs down his throat like candy. Mssr. Pierre slides a needle into young Francis’ arm, and the audience shout at the television again.

Young Francis slides into a bed, and his first false heat hits him like a ton of bricks. The audience cannot look as young Francis sobs and claws at his own skin. Mssr. Pierre enters the room and shoves more pills down young Francis’ throat.

“Shh, sweetheart.” He says.

The audience squirms uncomfortably as Mssr. Pierre shoves his fingers inside of young Francis, and they finally change the channel when Mssr. Pierre fucks young Francis into the bed.

When they come back to the movie, older Francis is on the side of a deserted highway in America, being sick all over a particularly ugly strip of dirt.

Behind older Francis is his betafriend, pacing with a shotgun.

The audience mutters about cliches when a pack of corpses ambles down the road, and older Francis’ betafriend hauls him into their car, and they speed away.

Now that I think about it, my life would make an excellent Lifetime movie.

 ****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Graphic violence, death, mentions of ambiguous parental emotional abuse, dissociation, mild body modification, non-graphic depictions of underage non-consensual sex, and depictions of underage drug use.
> 
> Summary: In this chapter, we are introduced to the three narrators (and protagonists) of the story. Alfred Kirkland, the alpha son of a wealthy businessman, has a vivid dream of his childhood, where he describes how his parents never had time to spend with their children, Alfred himself, and his beta brother, Matthew, so his father's return from a business trip was the most exciting time when he was a child, because his father would actually pay attention to him, aside from when he was berating him for his 'shortcomings.' When Alfred's father arrives, however, the dream shifts, and Alfred becomes a zombie, or "corpse," and assaults his father. His brother wakes him up, and Alfred witnesses a woman on the car next to theirs being violently killed by a "corpse." Alfred reflects that an alpha should have killed her betafriend, because the beta clearly became a "corpse," and began turning other people into "corpses." Alfred and Matthew abandon the woman and her young children because they cannot save them. 
> 
> Next, Ivan, a lone omega astrophysicist, also reflects on his childhood, although his dream describes him as a much younger child, watching a line of poor people try to get to a store, in the middle of a Russian winter, while Ivan knows he will not starve, because his father is very rich. Ivan's dream then traps him in a lightless void, where he reflects that a baby who was crying in the earlier part of his dream probably died of hunger. 
> 
> Francis, a gay beta, who worked as a sex-worker, and pretended to be an omega, with pheromone pills and drugs that induced heat-like trances, dreams about being "rescued" from an alley by a presumably beta prostitute, and being brought to a brothel. Francis has all of his body hair removed, so he can pretend to be an omega, and is coerced into taking the drugs that induced heat-like symptoms. The alpha who gave him the drugs, presumably the owner of the brothel, then has sex with Francis, who does not consent, and could not consent. During the dream, Francis dissociates, by describing the events as "a Lifetime movie," and this dissociation continues after Francis has woken up, until the end of the chapter, where Francis finally leaves his dissociative state.


	2. Sensitivities (Won't Destroy Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can't drive at night anymore. Corpses are attracted by the lights and the noise, and even on the back roads, there are occasionally abandoned cars in the road.
> 
> There's one in the middle of this road, in fact, although I don't think it's abandoned, by the way the corpses are swarming around it.
> 
> I put the RV in reverse and hit the gas pedal. It can do seventy-five miles per hour, and there's another road two or three miles back.
> 
> The swarm doesn't follow me, and I make it into the next town over in about half an hour.
> 
> I can't drive very fast because the RV burns more gas than an old lawnmower. It's taken me almost two months to get here when it should've taken me three weeks at most.
> 
> Canada doesn't have nearly as many Gun shops as Florida did, but I'm never going back there. In the cold, corpses can't move very fast, and in the snow, I imagine they won't be able to smell anything. That's just a theory, of course. The cold might not affect them at all, and I might die of hypothermia for nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally didn't just not update for like six months. Who, me? 
> 
> My updating schedules have always been kind of crazy, and I doubt I'll ever get very good at it. I'm a procrastinator, which sucks, and a perfectionist, which makes it worse. That's not to say that I'm not going to try to get better at it. Because I am.

It’s much harder to shoot out the window of a moving car than they make it look like in the movies. Especially when the driver is trying not to hit things, namely, moving corpses. I’m pretty sure I accidentally shot someone’s car, and a tree.

Maybe, if I were one of those ‘Die Hard’ military alphas, I would have better aim. I might even be a better person. I doubt it, but I can’t get much worse. I try not to picture the looks on those kids’ faces as I haul myself into the front seat of our Suburban. I think it probably says something about me that I bother to put my seatbelt on during the apocalypse, but I can’t save seven-year-olds from their upcoming demise.

Matt doesn’t say anything as we drive, but I know he’s beating himself up over them, too. He shouldn’t, really. The whole thing was my fault. I should’ve shot that beta girl when I had the chance, but me and my big, chivalrous heart, I couldn’t do it, and she went and turned a refugee camp.

We sit there for about half an hour before Matt says anything.

“What were you dreaming about?” He asks me. Matt was always shy when we were kids, but now that we’re all living on eggshells, he practically whispers everything he says.

I do consider telling him the truth, for a minute. But Matt is sensitive. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but ever since Maman and Dad died, he’s been depressed, and some days he’s with it, and he can handle doing what we have to, but other days, he’ll just sit in the backseat, not saying anything, not eating anything, just sitting there. He needs medication, or even just a psychiatrist, but I haven’t got either. The point is, talking about our parents, especially Dad, makes it worse.

“Nothing, Mattie. Just… y’know. The apocalypse.” I tell him.

He doesn’t believe me, I can tell, but what am I supposed to do? Tell him I had a dream about ripping our father apart? After a couple minutes of him not so subtly, but silently, judging me, I fish a CD case out from under the passenger’s seat.

The CD case proudly proclaims that it contains “Roderich Edelstein, performing Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor, Op. 30." I slide the CD into the player, then stuff the case back underneath the seat.

Roderich Edelstein was a great pianist, but he was an absolute asshole. He didn’t make it big until his mid-twenties, as far as I remember it, and before he did, he was a totally normal alpha. He was a piano teacher for little kids in Spain, and he was married to a pretty average omega, y’know, the whole ‘teacher couple’ thing. Then someone discovered him, and he got on a plane and never looked back. He divorced his wife, started gambling, slept around, the whole nine yards.

Well, obviously, that caught up to him pretty quickly. This Hungarian business-alpha bought his debt for dirt cheap and made Edelstein marry his daughter. She wanted to be a singer, and so her dad figured that Edelstein would be a great stepping stone, I guess. Well, he dragged her around all over Europe, showing her off, sticking her in front of cameras, making her pose next to him at the piano, and he certainly never got her a record deal. I think he actually ruined any chance she ever had of having one, but that’s neither here nor there.

But, when he finished his European tour, he had, in the most technical sense, introduced her to people, and helped her ‘network.’ According to Edelstein, that was all he owed her and her father.

Shortly thereafter, he stopped dragging his wife in front of the cameras and started attending Maman’s parties. Which was where he ‘met’ Aunt Gilbert.

Gilbert wasn’t actually my aunt, but he and Maman grew up together, and he had been there for her when Maman’s actual sister died, so he might as well been her brother. My grandparents even used to joke about adopting Aunt Gilbert, and they gave him my Aunt Jeatine’s trust fund, which he used primarily to become a socialite, and secondarily to make outrageous fashion statements.

So, Aunt Gilbert thought it would be a great idea to go to Maman’s party during his heat, because hey, these are upper-class alphas. They have more class than anyone, right?

Wrong.

Edelstein jumped him almost as soon as he saw him, and even though Maman tried to stop him, it was no use. So she cleared everyone out because she couldn’t just let people see that happen to Aunt Gilbert.

It was a huge scandal, and his wife, Elizaveta, was actually arrested for attacking Gilbert in the street.

I remember Maman spent the entire week in the hospital with him, and when she came back, she practically dragged Edelstein down the aisle. There was no way that anyone would ever forget about it, and everyone said that Aunt Gilbert was “asking for it” by coming to that party during his heat, so there certainly wouldn’t be any other marriage prospects for him.

They were never really happy, though. Edelstein blamed Maman for the whole thing, but he certainly couldn’t police what Aunt Gilbert did. He couldn’t even say anything, really, because of what he’d done. So Maman would rub Edelstein’s face in that, and Aunt Gilbert would spend more time at our house than his.

But we went to all of Edelstein’s concerts, and we got all of his CDs for free, no matter how Edelstein felt about Maman.

That was how we had it the car, because Matt was really into Edelstein’s music. I think Maman wanted him to marry Lili, Gilbert and Edelstein’s beta daughter, and Matt wanted to impress her father.

Jesus, I can only imagine what happened to Lili. She was so tiny, even at eighteen. If she didn't go the way of that beta girl, she must have been ripped apart by a horde.

 

-

 

You can't drive at night anymore. Corpses are attracted by the lights and the noise, and even on the back roads, there are occasionally abandoned cars in the road.

There's one in the middle of this road, in fact, although I don't think it's abandoned, by the way the corpses are swarming around it.

I put the RV in reverse and hit the gas pedal. It can do seventy-five miles per hour, and there's another road two or three miles back.

The swarm doesn't follow me, and I make it into the next town over in about half an hour.

I can't drive very fast because the RV burns more gas than an old lawnmower. It's taken me almost two months to get here when it should've taken me three weeks at most.

Canada doesn't have nearly as many Gun shops as Florida did, but I'm never going back there. In the cold, corpses can't move very fast, and in the snow, I imagine they won't be able to smell anything. That's just a theory, of course. The cold might not affect them at all, and I might die of hypothermia for nothing.

In the heat, however, the smell of rotting flesh permeates everything, and the roving swarms of dead children trickling in from Walt Disney World are terrible. I loved children, before. I suppose I still do, although I doubt I'll ever have any now.

Children aside, the town I stop in has a hunting shop. The door is locked, but it doesn't take an astrophysicist to pick a lock.

The shop is dusty, and the flashlight I brought with me is the only light source. The power went down almost immediately, although that didn't stop anyone from looting. The gun case isn't locked, of course. It probably was, but someone smashed the glass with a rock. The rock is still sitting there, right next to a shotgun and a Swiss Army knife. They're are the only things in the case, although there is a half empty box of shotgun shells that has been haphazardly balanced on the counter.

There's a creaking noise from the back of the shop, and I heft the shotgun up, before loading it. I used to keep a shotgun in my closet, and I kept it loaded for emergencies, so I at least know how to fire this. I’m sure I could figure out the trigger mechanisms of the other guns, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.

There are library-style shelves in most of the store, all filled with boxes of ammunition, that block the back of the shop, so I head back to the RV.

There is a gas station in town, but it looks completely pillaged, at least from what I can tell from across town. Most places have been cleaned out by now, and I’ll probably have to set up some sort of gardening system in the bedroom if I want to keep from getting rickets, or anything else.

The dogs are mostly still sleeping when I come back, all except Snake. She noses her way under my hand, and I pet her before I settle back into the driver’s seat. The apocalypse, for all that it is bloody and horrible, is also incredibly boring.

 

-

 

Ludwig has been asleep almost all night. Since the incident a few days ago, he has all out refused to let me take the wheel, no matter how many times I tell him that I am fine.

I do appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not as though he can go back in time and prevent any of it from happening, and sentiment certainly isn’t going to keep us alive.

I had to learn how to siphon gas out of a car because Ludwig refuses to do it. He says that it is because he’s the one who can shoot, but I know it’s because he thinks of it as stealing. I’m not sure how he can believe that, when he’s the one who, more often than not, has to put down the driver of the car.

He is very principled, although he would never admit that he has essentially the same moral code as a beta scout. Except for the sodomy. He is very in favor of gay sex, which I believe the beta scouts frown upon. But aside from that, his ethics aren't all that different.

"Ludwig." I try to shake him awake, and when that doesn't work, I poke him in the cheek. "Ludwiiiig."

He groans, and bats at my hand.

"Wake up, please," I say as I shake him again.

"Francis, what-" He shakes his head, then straightens up, "Are we in danger?"

"No, Cher." I smile. "We're out of gas."

He slumps back against the seat, then curses under his breath.

"Very well," Ludwig says. "Where is the next station?"

“I don’t know, I don’t have the map,” I tell him.

He reaches underneath the seat to grab the map, then unfolds it.

“We’ve just passed Kenora, so we’re around the top of Ontario. It’s probably a good idea to wait until we get into Manitoba to get gas, that way we’ll pass the camps.” Ludwig says. “So keep driving while I reload the gun.”

What he really means is 'while I wake up,' but I'll let it slide.

Like I said. We're doing fine. I'm doing fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Casual mentions of death, mentions of infidelity by a minor character, casual mentions of violence and body horror, and mentions of depression.
> 
> Summary: In this chapter, Alfred and Matthew make their way away from the refugee camp, all while Alfred blames himself for the deaths of the entire camp. Matthew asks what he was dreaming about in the previous chapter, and Alfred lies to protect him, as he mentions that Matthew is depressed, severely so, and he may have PTSD. Alfred then puts on some music from a CD on the floor, and talks about the pianist who recorded the CD. Roderich Edelstein, the pianist, married Alfred's semi-adopted omega aunt, Gilbert, after he forced himself on him during his heat. He also mentions that Edelstein had been married twice before, divorced both of them, and never would have married Gilbert if it weren't for Alfred's mother. The daughter that the two subsequently had was expected to marry Matthew, and she may have voluntarily been a love interest of Matthew's. Alfred is convinced that she died, however, because she was always very small, and would have made an easy target for "corpses."
> 
> Meanwhile, Ivan discusses why he is in Canada, and talks about how being in Florida, he lived quite close to Disney World, and that there was an actual odor from all of the "corpses." He says that many of them were children, which may have put a damper on his wish for children, although he previously was excited about having children. He comes to a small town, and gets himself a gun, as the "swarm" he almost ran into made him nervous. 
> 
> Francis and Ludwig, Francis' betafriend, are driving, several days after Francis' dissociative episode. Francis mentions that Ludwig was afraid to let him drive, in case he was triggered again, and Francis seems annoyed with the way that Ludwig treats him after an episode. Ludwig is sleeping, because he has exhausted himself, and Francis feels guilty for waking him up. He notices that despite living through the apocalypse, Ludwig has similar morals to a "beta scout," the equivalent of a boy scout.


	3. Shopping for Misery (New: Spam Flavor!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have to stifle my laugh at that. Ludwig would never agree to highway robbery, especially not if it might hurt someone. I, however, have no sympathy for the rich. What kind of karma is it that you should be rich, and live a privileged life while the rest of us suffer, and then you survive an apocalypse better than the rest of us because of your stupid muscle car?
> 
> So, when they make the turn into Manitoba, I follow.
> 
> 'Francis, is there a reason you’re following them?' Ludwig asks.
> 
> 'Do you see what kind of car they’re driving?' I ask. 'They’ve still got money.'
> 
> 'So?' He asks. 'What good will money do us?'"

“Al?” Mattie shakes my shoulder.

“Hm?” I’m not quite asleep, but I’m not quite awake, either.

“We’re almost out of gas.” He points at the fuel gauge.

“How many gallons have we got left?” I stretch out, and my shoulder blades pop.

“Maybe five?” Matt shrugs. “We have enough to get to the next town. Do you wanna try the gas station, or a parking lot?”

“The gas station would be better if you can find one. I don’t really want to do a siphon run out in the open.” I pop the CD out of the CD player and put it back in the case.

“Sure.” It takes Matt another five minutes to get us to Steinbach, and another three to get us to the gas station.

It’s one of those tiny gas stations with a little booth for the cashier and four pumps.

The great part of the apocalypse is that you either have to jerry rig the credit card terminals on the pumps, or you have to steal dry gas from the store, which takes about ten times longer than it should.

“Hey, you wanna go see if there’s any food in there?” I ask Matt, as I get my wallet out of the back seat.

My credit card still works on the pumps with consoles, and it probably will for a while. My trustfund’ll have to run out before I max it.

I grab my gun and slide out of the car. Matt goes for the booth while I slip my card out of my wallet.

I buy enough gas for a full tank, which is about twenty gallons, and lean against the car to watch the road.

I keep glancing at the count, and we’ve got about ten gallons left to go when Matt makes a strangled noise behind me.

“Matt?” I’ve got my gun out and I’m halfway across the parking lot before I can think about it. Alpha instincts are totally useless in a conflict.

When I get to Matt, he’s standing above a dead body. Not a dead corpse, but an actual person. He looks about seventeen, but I can’t really tell since there’s a hole in his head. Definitely an omega, though.

“They raped him.” Matt whispers.

He’s right. They cleaned out the booth, raped him, and killed him.

“We’ll go get food at the store downtown,” I say, as Matt stares dumbly at the poor kid’s corpse. “We might have to break the door to get in, but I don’t think there’ll be any corpses, not this far past the infection.”

“I want to bury him.” Matt whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking of Lili, or the woman in the car, or the beta girl who infected the whole camp.

“Matt-” I start to say, when he cuts me off.

“I know, Al. But I want to bury him.” His voice is a little louder now, and he really does want to.

“With what?” I ask.

Matt deflates a little bit, and his shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

“I’d say we could burn his body, but we can’t afford the time it would take to move him.” I grab his elbow. “Matt, we gotta go.”

His shoulders slump, and he turns away. “I’m sorry.”

I know I’m not the one he’s apologizing to.

-

There’s a grocery store a few blocks from the gas station. There aren’t any corpses in the parking lot, which is strange, so they’re either inside or across town.

I park the RV by the front door and grab the shotgun from the front seat. The dogs are apparently very tired today, and they barely raise their heads from the pile they’re in.

It looks like it’s going to rain when I leave the RV, so I’ll have to hurry if I want to leave town.

The front door is one of the doors that you can push open in an emergency, which is great, but the electricity seems to still be working.

I imagine that somewhere, there must be power plants that are still operating. The government has probably taken them over since they would have to, at least, run the nuclear plants, if they didn’t want them to react.

It wouldn’t be hard to fortify one, I muse, as I pull out one of the grocery carts. So far, no corpses, although there could be some deeper inside the store.

Some of the aisles have been ransacked, and there are no gallon bottles of water left, which is unfortunate.

I roll the cart into the canned goods aisle, which still has some food left. There are a few cans of corn left, some suspect looking cans of lima beans, canned mushrooms, baked beans, peas, carrots, and beets.

I take five cans each of the beets, the peas, the carrots, the corn and the mushrooms. Apocalypse or not, no one is going to make me eat a can of syrup and beans.

The dog food aisle is more or less still full, probably because no one brought their dogs with them. Except for me.

I get two large bags of the dry dog food, and a couple of rope dog toys. Their toys can’t make any noise, but they are dogs. They should get to have some fun, especially if they’re going to be scared all the time.

I don’t want to go anywhere near the deli or the butcher’s block. I’m sure the meat already has maggots in it, and I don’t want to make it any harder for me to eat canned meat than it already is.

My least favorite part of these trips is getting the cans of spam. The stove in the RV still works, so I can heat some of it up, but there are still things I refuse to eat, cooked or not.

The spam always stays in the cabinets the longest, so I take about fifteen cans of it.

I’m almost done when the betas come in, another beta and an alpha on their heels. God damn it.

-  
  
We’re especially quiet while we drive to Manitoba, because of the camp.

The refugee camps were originally to pool resources, and the army raided grocery stores, convenience stores, any stores they could find, to distribute food. At first, people would leave their cars, set up tents, cook on grills. They were trying to pretend nothing was happening. They all turned into corpses.

Since then, only the truly desperate sleep in camps. If one person turns, they can turn an entire camp in a matter of hours, so everyone sleeps in their cars, with their guns loaded.

Ludwig and I spent a few weeks in camps before I perfected my siphoning technique, and we had to drive off of our route for three hours, so we could get a car without a bullet hole in the windshield. Even now, some people are dead set against sodomy. I wonder what Jesus would say about that.

But the road to Manitoba is close to a camp, and we can’t afford to get caught if the inevitable has already happened.

The trees by the side of the road look undamaged, but that could just mean that no one got out in time.

It’s eerily silent, and I don’t dare roll down the window. Corpses have amazing senses of smell, which I don’t pretend to understand.

There’s one car on the road, far ahead of us, and it looks much nicer than the old Prius we stole from a shitty roadside dealership. They might even still have a credit card that works.

Most people’s credit cards stopped working when the systems crashed. Only the big banks still have electricity, according to one of the soldiers at a New York camp. So, if you want gas, you either siphon it, or you risk going to a camp. Unless you were rich enough at the start of the apocalypse to have a flashy sports car, and had enough money or credit that you could refill the tank fast enough.

In which case, you probably wouldn’t be very smart. You might drop it, or not have a gun, or be just smart enough to hand it over to a muscled blonde beta with a gun.

I have to stifle my laugh at that. Ludwig would never agree to highway robbery, especially not if it might hurt someone. I, however, have no sympathy for the rich. What kind of karma is it that you should be rich, and live a privileged life while the rest of us suffer, and then you survive an apocalypse better than the rest of us because of your stupid muscle car?

So, when they make the turn into Manitoba, I follow.

“Francis, is there a reason you’re following them?” Ludwig asks.

“Do you see what kind of car they’re driving?” I ask. “They’ve still got money.”

“So?” He asks. “What good will money do us?”

“I won’t have to siphon gas out of abandoned cars. We can pass the tolls without stealing E-Z passes.” I grip the steering wheel harder.

“They’re alive, Francis. They have as much, no, more of a right to that money than we do.” Ludwig puts his hand on my arm. “You know you don’t really care.”

“What do you mean, I don’t care?” I snap. “Why should we suffer while they waltz through life? Why are we always the ones who willingly take the short stick?”

“Because that isn’t the way to live, Francis. Stealing from them, sabotaging them? That won’t make you feel any better about yourself.” He starts to rub circles on my arm, and I yank it away.

“Maybe it will!” My hands go white on the steering wheel. “Maybe they deserve to see how the rest of us live-”

“Francis, it doesn’t matter!” Ludwig snaps. “They might have stolen that car, and even if they didn’t, what if they fight back? What if they hurt you? Will dying make you feel vindicated?”

“It might!” I snap, and it’s already too late to take it back. I can see it in his eyes, the long-repressed urge to recoil, followed by pity. I thought it was gone, but it rears its ugly head as though it’s only been gone a day, not five years.

“Francis-” He reaches for my shoulder and I shake him off again.

“Don’t.” I take a sharp left turn when their car pulls into a gas station. “I need to find a parking lot.”

 


	4. Spinning Like Birds On Fire (Right Down The Reservoir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " 'Alphas stockpile testosterone when they have an excess of adrenaline over a long period of time.' The omega says. 'It makes them better fighters, and supposedly, better providers. But it also means that they go through violent mood-swings, and if an omega goes into heat around them, it’s often hard for them to control themselves enough to stop in time.'
> 
> 'Which is why traveling together is a horrible idea.' The alpha says."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo boy. i sure am glad that i only update one every week or once very seven years!
> 
> seriously, though, i'm awful with deadlines, but i'm trying to get better.
> 
> trigger warnings and chapter summary in the end notes.

The grocery store is downtown, and it looks empty, so Matt parks the car and pulls his gun out from under his seat. 

 

“Do you want to grab a cart, or just stash and dash it?” I ask him. Matt loved Stash and Dash when we were kids. I don’t think I ever saw Matt smile as much as he did when we were racing through the store, stuffing anything we could reach into our pockets. The grocery store employees always let us do it because they knew we would pay for it at the end, but we loved to pretend that they were chasing us, a pair of hardened criminals, across the store.

 

“...We can just take the rifle bag.” Matt mumbles and gets out of the car.

 

I slide out of the car, snag the rifle bag out of the backseat, and jog after him.

 

There are a couple of betas going into the store, but Matt just keeps going.

 

“Mattie, I don’t think that we should-” I reach out to touch his shoulder, and he jerks his shoulder out of my hand.

 

“What difference does it make?” He asks. “If you’re so worried about it, wait in the car.”

 

He keeps walking.

 

(“Matthew, you’re a beta, you can’t inherit, leave the important matters to your brother…” 

 

“Oh, my baby boy, don’t you know? Your father bought that car for Alfred…” 

 

“Matt, that’s your brother, right? The surgeon?” 

 

“Woah, Matt, you didn’t tell me that your brother was such an omegas-alpha. Wasn’t his date in the Paris fashion show?”)

 

The automatic doors still work, which is good for us now, but would be a death sentence if any corpses showed up.

 

The inside of the store is pretty okay for two months in. The betas, on the other hand, aren’t.

 

The tall one looks para-military, with the muscles to show for it, and he’s got a fucking AK slung across his back.

 

They’re both blondes, but while the tall one has a crew-cut that’s been steadily growing longer, the shorter one has dull shoulder length hair that looks like he washed it with dishwater. He’s got a stubble beard coming in, and shadows under his eyes that almost make it look like he’s got two black eyes. 

 

Most of all, though, the shorter one looks pissed. He looks like he would stick a knife in your ribcage as fast as he would look at you. Or, more specifically, me, since I’m the one he’s glaring at.

 

The pièce de résistance, though, is the omega coming through the dog food aisle. He’s traditionally beautiful, with pink lips and blonde hair, and he goes from calm to aiming a shotgun at Matt’s chest in five seconds flat.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The shorter beta says. “Alphas take bullets better.”

 

I’ve got the Glock in my hands, locked and loaded, before he can finish his sentence. “Maybe. But we also shoot back.”

 

“He’s right,” The omega says, with a thick Russian accent, and then aims the shotgun at my head, “drop your gun.”

 

“Not going to happen,” I say, “but thanks for the offer.”

 

Matt crouches down, and the taller beta aims the AK at his head.

 

I turn counter-clockwise and end up with my gun on the shorter beta’s forehead.

 

“Let’s all just take a deep breath, here,” I hear myself say, although I can feel the testosterone stockpiling, “and calm down before things get ugly.”

 

The shorter beta pulls out a switchblade, thin and mean, and scowls at me. “Uglier, you mean?  _ Fucking alphas _ ,” he spits in French.

 

“ _ Fucking betas _ ,” I spit right back, and Matt straightens up again, his gun in his hand.

 

“ _ Fucking omegas _ ,” Matt says. “I think that covers everyone. Now, why don’t we all calm down?”

 

-

 

I remember seeing my first horror movie when I got to Florida. Not that I couldn’t have, theoretically, seen one in Russia, but my father wouldn’t let me. But when I went to the movies that December, I saw my first shitty zombie movie. And sitting in that movie theater, I heard a B-List actor say “Alpha, Beta, Omega- it doesn’t matter. We’re all fucked in the apocalypse.”

 

That, obviously, isn’t true. The beta with the gun (not the one standing next to the alpha, although he looks horrible,) looks haggard, and the one with the switchblade looks like a mean junkyard dog.

 

The alpha, of course, looks just about as fine as you can look during an apocalypse. Of course, not all wounds show on the outside, but there’s a certain glint in his eyes that makes him look like a threat. 

 

I know I look awful, but it doesn’t matter, not really. It just shows that I don’t shoot anyone who gets in my way.

 

We’re all standing in front of a carriage stockpile, guns and switchblades momentarily put away. 

 

“Anybody been in the aisles yet?” The alpha asks.

 

The beta with the switchblade tucked in his pocket glares at him.

 

“I have. It looks like there was a large crowd here, although they’re gone now.” I tell him.

 

“Oh fuck.” He crouches, throws the rifle bag he came in with over his shoulder, and pulls at the beta’s arm.

 

“What are you doing?” The taller beta demands.

 

“We just came from an overrun camp, about a mile south of here. We had to drive around to get out, but when the corpses come back, they’ll be a whole horde.” He pulls at the beta’s arm again. The beta doesn’t move.

 

“Al, we can’t just leave them here.” He glares at the alpha.

 

“You think another three people are gonna fit in Dad’s Lamborghini?” He asks. “They’ll be fine.”

 

“Like that omega at the gas station was fine?” The beta demands.

 

The alpha seems to deflate, and before I can react, he has one hand around my arm. “What kind of car are you driving?” He asks me.

 

“An RV. I can certainly take care of myself, though, and I would appreciate it if you would let go of my arm.” I snap.

 

“Yeah, I can see that. You look like shit.” He says.

 

“Fuck you! Let go of my damned arm!” I spit. Sure, I know that I look awful, but I don’t need some rich alpha to fucking rescue me.

 

“The RV in front of the door?” He asks, although he does let go of my arm.

 

I nod, and he takes off for the front door.

 

“What are you doing?” The beta he’s with calls.

 

“Getting the guns out of the trunk!” The alpha calls, as he runs out the door of the grocery store.

 

“Well, we’d better go.” The beta says and heads for the door.

 

Since they’re apparently hijacking my RV, I follow him, although I probably should have mentioned the dogs. I bring the grocery cart with me since I’m apparently hosting the next nuclear war.

 

“What are you doing?” The beta with the switchblade asks.

 

“If we’re being kidnapped, I’d rather not starve to death,” I tell him.

 

“You’re actually going to go with them?” He asks. He has a thick French accent, and it hard to understand him.

 

“Hmm, let me think, let you all come with me, or try and stop an armed alpha and beta while driving away from a corpse-pit?” I fill my arms with canned goods and wait for the alpha’s beta to open the door.

 

The dogs swarm around the door when it opens, but when they catch a glimpse of the three betas behind me, they scamper away.

 

I dump the cans on the counter and crouch down a little way away from the dogs.

 

“It’s okay, they won’t hurt you,” I croon, and the dogs nervously wag their tails.

 

“Prince,” I coo, “come to Mama, hmm?”

 

Prince wiggles out from where the other dogs have him pressed against the wall, and trots up to me. He nuzzles my face, then looks at the betas in the doorway.

 

“That’s... a lot of dogs.” The alpha’s beta says.

 

“I like dogs,” I tell him, as Prince sniffs at his knees. “One of you grab their food for me, would you?”

 

The tall beta nods then disappears out the doorway. The beta with the switchblade follows, with a wary look at the dogs.

 

“I guess he’s a cat person.” The alpha’s beta gives a weak laugh, then crouches down to scratch Prince’s ears.

 

I shrug and stand up.

 

“Hey, buddy.” He murmurs, “You’re a handsome guy, huh?”

 

“His name is Prince,” I tell him, as I sort the cans into the different shelves.

 

I look back at them, and Prince perks up when he hears his name, although he turns back to the beta when he runs a hand over his back.

 

“He likes you,” I tell him, as I reach down to pick up Pusik.

 

“Is Prince ignoring you, hmm?” He whimpers, and noses at my fingers. “Oh, my poor neglected little baby.”

 

“You really like dogs, huh?” The beta asks.

 

“I already said that,” I point out. “But yes, I do.”

 

“How come you don’t have anyone to travel wi-” He starts to ask, but he’s interrupted by the betas coming back. I put Pusik back on the ground and open the cabinets again.

 

The beta with the switchblade has the rest of the cans, so I tell him, “Just put them on the counter, I’ll put them away.”

 

He gives a jerky nod, and edges around the dogs while the tall beta sets the bag of dog food on the ground. 

 

“Where do you want this?” He asks, which is the only thing I’ve heard him say. He has an accent too, and although it sounds German, it’s sort of muddy, as though it’s mixed with other things over the years.

 

“I’ll take it,” I tell him, and he shakes his head.

 

“Just tell me where to put it.” He says.

 

“Uh, alright. Just under the counter, here.” I crouch down again and open the cabinet door.

 

He nods and picks up the bag again.

 

The door to the RV bangs open, and the alpha ducks back inside. 

 

The beta with the switchblade startles and the cans go clattering across the counter. I snag one from the edge before it can hit the other beta, who is kneeling right under the counter.

 

-

 

“Hey, sorry.” The prick from before says.

 

The terrified beta he’s with shakes his head, and pets one of the omega’s dogs.

 

“It’s fine.” I snap, and Ludwig puts a gentle hand on my shoulder when he stands up.

 

The omega looks awkward in between us and quickly excuses himself.

 

“So, now that we’re all packed in here like a can of sardines, what’s your great plan?” The omega asks.

 

The alpha looks sheepish, but I can’t trust him. I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before, but something about him makes me uneasy.

 

“Matt and I,” he gestures to the beta, “have a cabin up a little ways from here. There’s a town near there, with a car dealership. From there, you can do whatever you want.”

 

Matt, as the alpha calls him, scowls up at him. “Although it might be better if we all travel together.”

 

“That’s a horrible plan,” the alpha mutters.

 

“What, Mr. Privilege can’t handle traveling with a couple of fags?” I snap.

 

He recoils, as though I slapped him, and I almost feel bad. Then I get angrier. Why the hell should I feel bad for saying what he was probably thinking?

 

“No, of course not!” He says, hands up in a placating gesture.

 

“It’s me.” The omega says. “You’re worried about me,” he nods at Matt, “and he wants to jump me. He’s afraid he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself.”

 

Matt glares at the alpha, and I wonder how they know each other. They look like brothers, but the resemblance could be a coincidence.

 

“I- yeah. But I would never do anything to you, I promise. It’s just the testosterone build-up.” He says.

 

“What testosterone build-up?” I snap.

 

“Alphas stockpile testosterone when they have an excess of adrenaline over a long period of time.” The omega says. “It makes them better fighters, and supposedly, better providers. But it also means that they go through violent mood-swings, and if an omega goes into heat around them, it’s often hard for them to control themselves enough to stop in time.”

 

“Which is why traveling together is a horrible idea.” The alpha says.

 

“It’s not, actually.” The omega says, his eyes calculating. “Testosterone build-up makes your scent glands go haywire, which corpses can’t seem to smell, but other alphas can.”

 

The omega quirks a smile, “Besides, King likes your brother.”

 

The alpha looks momentarily startled. “I guess I’m outvoted, then.” He looks at me. “We’ll still drive you to that car dealership if you want.”

 

Ludwig leans down and whispers in my ear. “There’s safety in numbers,” he reasons, “and I don’t trust them to be alone with him.”

 

“Always the boy scout,” I mutter, and shake my head. “Someone has to make sure your brilliant plan doesn’t backfire,” I tell the alpha, “and I guess it’s going to be us.”

  
Matt, who, sometime during that exchange had stood up, was looking out the window. “Great. We should probably go, though, if we don’t want to be a buffet line.” He quirks a humorless smile and points out the window at a horde of corpses that are slowly shambling down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Emotional Child Abuse, Mild Emotional Manipulation, Mentions of Rape, Homophobic Slurs (from someone who identifies as queer)
> 
> Chapter Summary: In this chapter, The five main characters face off in a grocery store. The three have a tense (and armed) face-off, before Matthew talks them down. They then discuss whether there are enough supplies in the store for all of them, when Ivan mentions that the store looks as though it recently held a large crowd of zombies, or 'corpses.' Alfred, recognizing that this crowd was most likely the one that had joined with the (somewhat) pre-existing crowd of 'corpses' at the refugee camp that he and Matthew just left, demands that the two leave. Matthew, however, refuses to leave the others there, and so Alfred runs to collect the guns from the trunk of their car, while the others stay in the store. After he leaves, the remaining four make their way to Ivan's RV, and although Francis bickers with Ivan over whether or not to go with Matthew and Alfred, Ivan insists that he won't challenge an armed alpha and beta if they aren't planning on hurting him. There is an interaction between all four and Ivan's dogs, one of whom, Prince, seems to take a liking to Matthew. When Alfred returns, there is a brief, heated debate about why Alfred doesn't want to travel with them, where it is revealed that he is afraid of sexually assaulting Ivan, due to his unbalanced testosterone levels, although Francis initially accused him of not wanting to travel with them because he and Ludwig are gay. Ivan assures Alfred that it is a good idea to travel together, although he only briefly explains why, citing Alfred's overactive scent glands as a reason. Francis and Ludwig agree to travel with them, since Ludwig is worried about Ivan's wellbeing. The chapter ends with Matthew insisting that they leave immediately, and showing them all that a large crowd of 'corpses' is coming towards them.


End file.
